The Party
by Crazy Rob
Summary: Short series concerning the motives of four heroes of a Final Fantasy based world. Rated M for mature situations and some real life unpleasantness.
1. Black Haze

THE PARTY: Jacob's Story

I am a Black Mage.

My name is nothing meaningful or legendary, it is Jake. Jacob, if formal.

And I am now an adventurer. Tagging along on a quest against some ancient evil that a king in some country I never heard of before needs dead so a centuries old curse doesn't bite everyone in the ass.

I've been told by the Thief I travel with that this has happened before, frequently, in the past.

My specialty is, to be simple, destruction. Elemental fury and calling on arcane forces to destroy foes. Not evil, though it has great potential to be used for evil.

For this reason, you get a lot of weird, cautious, and even outright untrusting looks when people find out you can summon fireballs and blizzards at will. Restaraunt owners would ask me to leave when I tried to eat out with my family, offering discounts on take-out if polite, brandishing swords if not. Churches would condemn me without a single thought as to what I used my abilities for.

The funny thing about this? I was still expected to be the main artillery when a stray Marbolo wandered into the city. Me, and the other black mages. We had a "duty".

We got faint praise after the Marbolo is dead and smoldering and then they went back to fearing/shunning us.

Because, you know, we're only doing this for power. Our magic can only be used to fight, so of course we're evil. We couldn't possibly, you know, take up arcane forces in place of swords to suit our strengths.

They praise savage bums who swing sharp objects and treat barmaids like trash and shun us after we just got through saving a town from ruin.

Swords are weapons- items meant to kill. I can't use swords too well, so I take up magic as my weapon. The local Paladin guild even advises citizens to have at LEAST a dirk when they go outside the city. We have damned shops that sell discount maces and spears for longer trips, and tailor made leather armor.

Anyone can pick up a sword and start swinging. I had to learn, slowly, taxingly, to shape frost and flame, squall and storm. I learned responsibility and courage. I learned that an insult does not justify a fireball to the groin. I learned of brave Black Mages who stood their ground, hurling Thundaga spells at an army of Orcs that never seemed to slow down in their advance, fighting to the last breath.

Swing a sword and you're a hero. Sling a spell, and everyone gossips how you're going to try and sacrifice their children. Or dominate the world through their evil black magic.

I was 16, dammit. World domination was- and still is- out of my reach. Was it to much to ask that they refrain from reaching for their daggers when I walk by just because I use metaphysical power rather than sharp objects?

White Mages don't really have it any better. They get respect, but they're expected to be freaking miracle workers. God help them if they don't have all the answers, these people feel they are obligated to have all of life's answer's written on their palms in case someone asks. Still, it's probably better than people whispering about "Here comes the next Lich" whenever you walk in.

So, how do I get to be an adventurer?

It went like this. A band of adventurers, a white mage, thief, and a magic knight show up in town. (They enchant their blades with magic not unlike mine, and still get respected. The injustice makes me sick, but the guy was a decent fellow, so I refrain from taking it out on him.)

And wouldn't you know it, a Marbolo also shows up, and after years of disrespect, many of the local Black Mages have left. And by many, I mean, of course, all of them- except for me.

I'm expected at the age of 16 to go out and hurl fire and thunder and blizzard at it until I run out of mana, then distract it like bait while their brave soldiers sneak up from behind and attack it. God forbid they get hurt.

But... the adventurers got wind of the marbolo- not too hard, you can smell the things easily before you see them.

They saw me heading towards it.

I'm guessing it was either boredom or a paladin complex on their part, but what happened next would be a staple of my life.

We joined forces.

I blasted with black magic. The thief distracted and stabbed it in the eyes, driving it insane with rage. The white mage healed me and the magic knight when it started swinging its tentacles around in our direction- and connected more times than I like to think about. And the magic knight, unlike the idiot savages with swords who just charge and stab repeatedly, waited for lulls in its guard, coated his blade in ice spikes or wreaths of flame, and slashed at it methodically, aiming for eyes and severing its strongest tentacles.

I was lucky they came along, this was a particularly nasty marbolo with a huge appetite, and would of had me for an appetizer had I been alone. It fell, finally, after I mustered the last of my mana and chucked a fireball that burnt it enough that it fell over, dead.

The mayor saw this, walked up to the heroes, thanked them, and then started yelling at me about my incompetence and lectured me about "not performing to the best of my ability." Something about not 

being able to kill it alone and as fast as last time- never mind I had three more black mages aiding me at that time.

That's when the Magic Knight piped up that I had helped a great deal, which brought laughter from the townspeople. The mayor said that there was no need to defend me for my incompetence. Or my worthlessness.

That did it. The laughter died, and the mayor kinda looked like he wished he hadn't said that.

The Magic Knight, disgusted with the town, asked me if I felt like tagging along. They needed a spellslinger.

Angry at this rotten village and pissed off with my parents for not sticking up for me, I agreed. I finally understood what my fellow mages had been trying to tell me for so long- that when our services go unappreciated, it's time to move on.

THEN they pleaded. THEN they apologized. THEN they said they were only joking. THEN they said they were grateful for all I did but they never thanked me for. THEN my parents told me they didn't mean it when they always asked aloud "where did we go wrong?".

Too little. Too late. Too bad. I'm not an evil person, an evil person would have burned the town to the ground after one day of what I went through. I had simply had my fill for a lifetime of abuse and suspicion.

I was about to leave with my new group when the Mayor asked me to stay, to help protect the village. I refused, citing the ingratitude and disrespect. Not to mention lack of pay. It was too much for one inexperienced Black Mage to handle. He then got all angry and started lecturing me on ethics and putting the community first.

The thief, Thomas, told me now was the time to leave. "Blowhards like this only talk to hear themselves sound smart."

As we left, my father yelled after me that I could never return home- he no longer considered me his son for abandoning him.

I yelled back that I never considered him a father- for shunning me when it was found I was better with magic than swords. At age five.

He didn't say anything, just looked at the ground. Mom cried and another elderly woman held her as she sobbed. Maybe they felt genuinely sorry for how they treated me.

From that day on, life was... interesting. I made friends with my party members quickly- you don't help each other fend off a goblin raiding party, backs to backs, and not come out of it with a sense of unity.

I have fought off hungry wolves and faced down an evil lich who offered me a position as his student and apprentice, and responded with a Fira (a big nasty fireball of DEATH) to the face. We forced him to teleport away to avoid utter destruction, looted his tower, and faced him again when he swore revenge on little ol' me.

I swear, these guys need to find someone worth the effort of elaborate revenge plots. I mean, seriously.

It has been four years. I have fought, died and been resurrected, learned powerful magic, faced down demons both inner and outer, traveled into parallel dimensions, and have traveled into the lairs of ancient red dragons and demons to rid the world of big nasty monsters.

I have seen thieves try to take over towns, I've seen idiots glutted on too much rich food and fine wine plot and scheme for their own personal gain, and have helped topple one or two. I have cast Water spells at minimum force to douse roaring fires to save lives. I have been offered drinks by dwarves and boarding by elves, and I see little difference between them and humans aside from appearance.

I now own a rod that augments my magic a good deal and a robe that resists rival mages' attempts to incinerate me.

I am writing all this as we travel via an airship to a land where supposedly Bahamut himself dwells among the righteous metallic dragons (the kind that don't eat you to see what you taste like.) He supposedly has heard of us four and wants to ask us a favor. It's sure to be interesting- dragons don't ask favors from humans unless they really need something.

Hanna, the white mage, is sleeping, and I blush when I realize I've been watching her smile in her dreams. We've got a... deep thing. It's the result of Thomas telling her after she regained consciousness that I went into a fury when a dark knight struck her down and barbecued him in a fit of rage, then wept over her as the town healer tended to her, and the incident where we got seperated, I got hurt by a trap, and she held my hand as I bled, her mana and our potions gone, hoping to comfort me in death. Fortunately, Thomas found us and got a Hi-Potion in me and an ether in her.

Roy is praying for favor and that he doesn't do something to offend Bahamut. I swear, the guy is so self-critical it's almost annoying sometimes, but he's the kind of guy who'd you'd want at your side either in the midst of combat or speaking to kings, draconic or otherwise.

Thomas is playing cards with the airship members, and is getting a fair share of the pot.

I am sitting, on one of the cots on board, thinking.

The town I grew up in eventually fell apart as the soldiers assigned to guard against monsters grew cowardly and disgruntled, becoming more abusive towards merchants until one by one, people moved away. The mayor drank himself to death in despair. Mom and Dad... I don't know where they are. Last I heard, they moved to a smaller village. They haven't written. Oh, well. Too late to bail out now, and I'm not feeling particularly homesick.

I don't know where this little adventure will end. We may be heroes. We may be saints. We may be martyrs. That's the life of an adventurer- you're more likely to be a pile of bones than a hero.

But I have no regrets. Not now. Not ever.

The captain says that it'll be a good four hours before we reach the land of dragons. Fine with me. Time for a nap. As I lay down, I begin to think.

I could have been anything else, but I chose Black Mage.

I wonder how other choices, like maybe a simple fighter or thief would be, and decide nothing would be as exciting as this. It may very well be I wind up dead on this journey, but when we all reach paradise, we'll have to laugh and say "Woo! That was one hell of a ride, huh?"

That's what this is all about, adventuring. You can choose to be safe and protected and sheltered...

Or you can choose to live.


	2. Empty Glee

THE PARTY

Treasure hunter.

Wealth redistributor.

Renegade Hero.

You can't really put much other positive spins on being a thief.

Some people have the power of arcane swordplay in them, a monk's ki mastery, or a wizard's magical prowess. I have a knife that's been used for everything from bad haircuts to change appearance to carving up a goblin. That and my reflexes and wits.

My name is Thomas. I have a name other than "good for nothing", despite what some people would lead you to believe.

You might ask me, "How does one become a thief? Did you simply wake up one morning and decide, 'hey, why WORK for a living? I want to steal stuff!'?"

I can't answer for everyone, but mine is a tragic tale. Real tearjerker. Wanna hear it? It's 50 gil.

Ah, I'm just joshing ya... sorta. You gotta make a living somehow.

Here's how you become a thief.

First, be a kid. This is simple enough, you just gotta be born.

Next, watch as a tyrant takes, and takes, and takes via taxes and corrupt officials. Watch as your parents are hung publicly for failure to pay royal debts they never owed, and the house you were growing up in turned into a tavern for soldiers. It's best to have this happen when you're eight, and you have to have the local chemist explain that mommy and daddy aren't coming down from the ropes to cook dinner and tuck you into bed. Ever again.

Then find a knife. Feel the sharpness, the cold, sweet promise that a few cuts in the right places on your body and you see mommy and daddy again...

Then hear a little girl say "don't touch me there" to a guard who is far too old to be interested in women who still play with dolls and hold imaginary tea parties. Hear the guard slap her and say to hold still and keep quiet, and realize with that eight year old mind of yours that something very, very bad is about to happen.

Twitch. It's just a reflex.

And the next thing you know you're standing over the cooling corpse of the guard and there is something red, wet, and sticky on your hands, and the girl is looking at you with a mixture of terror and shock and gods know what else.

He was going to hurt her. I had to stop him. You understand, right? Right? It ain't murder, it's defending someone else. If I can't save myself, I gotta save someone right?

Gotta save everyone. No more sad goodbyes, no more taxes, no more tyrant.

Then you steal some poison- the kind chemist use to get rid of Goblin Infestations.

Then you somehow, by some blessing of some deity of revenge and dark justice, get this poison into the evening dinner of the tyrant responsible for your parent's death.

Now, pay attention, this part is important. Crucial for being a thief.

When the chemist understands what happened, and asks you "Oh dear gods, Thomas, what have you done?", look him square in the eye and say "What everyone else wanted to do."

Then run. Run out of town. Run until your legs hurt and finally you collapse and your chest feels like tiny little mages are casting fire over and over inside.

Or you could just decide you like stealing stuff. It's different for everyone.

Me, I developed a potent distaste for tyrants. "Law" was to me a bunch of words some fat guy with a crown made up so he could push people around and kill little kid's parents.

Go ahead. Call me a thief because I steal the local tax collector's purse and use its contents to fill my belly and give the rest to the widow with two starving kids. Better than calling me a tyrant.

So I stole. And stole. And stole some more. There's only so much satisfaction in seeing the local baron die, it's far more amusing to hear how he fainted when his prized treasures somehow grew legs and walked off whilst he was sleeping.

But people don't care why you steal, they only care that you steal.

Thief is still the mark of disgrace in communities. That's understandable- no one likes their stuff to disappear, so a thief, no matter how professional, is always going to have to deal with a lot of stigma.

Unless you're the adventuring type. Then, poof, bang, whizzo! You are no longer a cutpurse, you are the incarnate of the lawless hero. The fact you wander from town to town with people of other professions automatically dispels any stigma, because a lone thief is evil, steals from the good, and kills babies in 

their sleep for kicks, and adventurer thieves disarm traps and kill tyrants and eventually become mystical rangers or guardians of the commonfolk.

Or ninja. I like ninjas. A few like me. They told me after one big mess where me and my buds trashed a rather ill-tempered ogre mage that once I'd developed my mental muscles a bit to come back. Learn a bit.

You can go from society's worst to a paragon of heroism and bravery to a corpse in just one year in this business. That's life for you.

But there's always work for an adventuring thief. A lock needs picking on a treasure chest, something valuable is stolen and needs to get "unstolen", traps with acid baths and arrows and explosives need disarming, and occasionally a pedophile guard needs a new hole in his neck.

I've been at this... -what, five years now?- Ever since a Magic Knight asked for my help exploring (read: looting and clearing out monsters from) the crypt of a mage who sorta went insane and tried to cheat death.

We've picked up a white mage and a black mage who developed the hots for each other along the way, and now we're a solid group.

We've had tyrants put out bounties on our head and crazed fools with nothing to lose but their lives come after us to try and collect. They're all dead now.

I keep the smile and bad jokes flowing. Someone's gotta play comedian, lighten the mood. Help steer clear of discussing if that last person who tried to kill us was trying to earn money to feed his kids.

I have blood on my hands- blood that can never be washed away. So I pray at the temples for forgiveness. Hand out a few hundred gil I have to spare to the homeless. Gotta remember where I came from and why I can't go back.

I'm sorry mom, dad. I know you wanted better for me. But this is the best I can do. This is what I know how to do.

I'm sorry, chemist. I know the poison was expensive, but the tyrant won't be taxing you anymore. I hope that makes up for it.

I see Jacob and Hannah have fallen asleep, and I wonder if they dream of each other. The crew worker I'm playing cards with folds, mutters about investing in a luck charm.

I feel guilty about the cards hidden in my sleeve. Just a little.

Guy's gotta make a living somehow, and there are some skills you can't unlearn.

So, there's my story, sorry, but I don't have a hankie for you to blow your nose with. It was kinda rude of me to depress you with such a tearjerker. I know what'll take your mind off, though.

A little friendly gambling. Small wagers. Feel lucky?


	3. White Mist

I am Hannah.

I am the healer. The one who brings the balm.

I am the one who makes wounds disappear and poisons fade. I breathe life back into the fallen, turn stone back to flesh, strike down demon and undead with blasts of holy light, and I do it all under a simple, functional sea blue robe.

But at night I am the little girl who cries and prays and asks her god so many "why" questions.

Why do they hurt each other?

Why do people humiliate each other for sport?

Why are they so cruel?

Why do Tyrants kill fathers, imprison mothers, and take a girl not 12 years old as a future concubine, and face no repercussion, whatsoever?

And what are YOU doing about it? You, who I have pledged my faith to?

These are the questions I ask. Melodramatic, maybe. But it's hard... hard to heal the hurt and realize that although someone isn't bleeding anymore, you can't remove the memory of pain and violation.

And it hurts.

It hurts because the little girl who's arm I'm reattaching after a thief slashed it off to steal her basket of groceries (amounting to a grand whopping value of 10 gil) isn't just a patient.

She is a human who is hurting. And she doesn't know why she's been hurt.

"Did I do something wrong? I'm sorry!"

No, little girl. You did nothing wrong. The bad man decided to cut off your arm and make you feel excruciating pain because he'd rather kill an innocent life than work.

Thomas and Jake make short work of the offender. Jake burns off his hands before they can fling knives, and Thomas... he... he made sure the thief would never hurt anyone again. Ever.

I try to be upset with what Thomas did to the thief, but I can't. Not after seeing the girl cry.

"You have to remove the arrow before the wound can truly be cured."

That was the high priest's explanation for why bad people had to die sometimes.

And then there are the ingrates. No matter what I do or how hard I try or how exhausted I am, there is always at least a handful of people who expect me to be the walking essence of deus ex machina.

If someone gets hurt, they demand to know why I did not take some time to cast protective magic. If I protect that person, they demand to know why I did not protect three. If I heal and protect every single person, they demand to know why I didn't simply kill the monster outright!

And these ingrates aren't the wounded who need my care or the valiant soldiers who insist their more seriously hurt brethren get care before themselves- they are the leeches who demand their cuts be healed before the other's maimings, their cough cured before another's death. They are the leeches, and Alexander help me I will never understand how they can be so selfish, so cruel, so unrecognizing of another's more serious needs...

It is, to be blunt, infuriating.

But there are good times.

Times when you provide the necessary healing that keeps a pregnant mother alive through labor. Times when you announce you have a cure for the plague, and the look of relief washes over the faces of those you seek to cure.

And they praise your name.

There are the times when it is MY Holy spell that burns away the last of a Lich's negative lifeforce, and, as his crumbling form curses the name of my ancestors, I feel pride in that he will never harm anyone again.

And... Alexander forgive me my lust...

There are times me and Jake are the last ones awake when we're sleeping in the wild, and we talk about how easy it would be to sneak off and perform the "Rite of Love".

But he never asks me to.

He values me too much to. And I him.

He knows the pain magic can bring, and why it must be used to stop it. He knows this because he is a manifestation of destruction. He could easily leave towns in cinders, or frozen graveyards, or not even existing anymore.

But he doesn't. Because he knows what it means to use power responsibly. And he knows it would hurt me.

Besides, he says the last town had excellent Gedegg Soup. It's those snarky little rationalizations of his good side that make me love him.

We occasionally kiss, sometimes, when Thomas and Roy aren't looking. Roy pretends not to notice, but Thomas mimes playing the violin, batting his eyebrows in a sarcastic manner, mimicing the music with his vocal talents.

We are now en route to the land of the dragons, at the behest of the great wyrm Bahamut. Thomas cheats a poor sap who should know better out of 50 gil. Roy plans ahead with the captain. Me and Jacob... sleep.

In separate beds, unfortunately. Oh, did that slip out? Sorry.

Goodnight, Jacob. If you'll dream of me, I'll dream of you, until our dreams can be reality.

As sleep takes me, I hear again the question I have asked my God.

And what are YOU doing about it? You, who I have pledged my faith to?

The answer comes softly, gently.

_"I did the best thing I could, child. I sent you four."_


	4. Honor Lost

I am not a Paladin.

I am not the holy knight riding in on a white horse who points a righteous finger at the local tyrant and announces in a deep baritone voice that his "wicked days have come to an end."

I can wield the holy elemental in short bursts through my sword, such is my training, but thank you, I'll do fine without the melodrama of chivalry and pompousness.

"You're a greedy bloated prick. I'm going to stab you in the face with a sword that's on fire. Any questions?"

That sets the mood pretty damn quick without lectures on morality.

But I am no Dark Knight.

I don't kill a mugger attacking a lady, and then ask that she "repay" me, or else.

I don't ask for "protection money" when I'm in a store, alone, with a feeble clerk struggling to sell enough merchandise to stay fed.

I am a Magic Knight. My name is Roy. I am not the bastion of holy righteousness you hear in bard's tales, but I can dare to say I am not a total and complete bastard.

Moral-wise, anyway. My true bastardom... that's another story.

I am- not, was the son of a Paladin and a White Mage. How noble- The protector and the healer marrying. Quaint, no?

My father was a good man. Alas, the operative word is "was".

He, for his services in the military and his brave actions, received a great deal of land over which he could build a castle, a town, and rule. He did so. For many years, during which I was born, it was a happy, prosperous kingdom.

But father was not made for royalty.

He grew glutted and drunk on too much rich food and fine wine. His skill and swordplay dulled, and he entertained far too many ladies with far too little clothing on. One night, my mother, already worn away by the stresses of raising me, a five year old whelp (Father was, according to his own words, too busy running the kingdom to help), was driven over the edge by finding my father in bed with several other women.

She ran to the highest rampart of the castle, and threw herself off. Father had her body burned and reported that she had ran off with a thief. He received sympathy from his people. He received disgust from me.

For ten long years I endured being that man's son. For ten long years I endured the double standards- he had his captain of the guard train me to the breaking point, "so you will not shame my good name", he said.

Your good name? Your good name? You once tried, after mother died, to show me how to perform a holy sword technique that unleashed sacred energy into a blast of divine force. But you could not. Not just because your skill had left you, father- your faith and goodness had as well.

At fifteen, I had enough. I was tired of seeing my mother's room used to house my father's concubines. Tired of seeing him preach goodness and justice while taking bribes and letting the kingdom fall apart, brick by brick. Tired of making me bedridden with exhaustion from over-rigorous training while he dined on two roast pigs for luncheon.

I took a sword from the armory, a cloak, a modest amount of gil, and ran off. He did not have me pursued.

I hate you, father. I hate you for what you did to mother, to me, to your people, to your faith, to your God, to everyone. I pray all that rich food will kill you- or that your blackened heart will simply kill itself out of shame.

But I will mourn you, even then, father. For I cannot be entirely convinced that this is entirely your fault.

I have heard you were forced by circumstance to leave home at twelve to join the army and fight- watching friends and allies die in droves- for fourteen long years. Your only rest was inn beds, the hard, rocky ground, and occasionally a hospital's sick bed when you were simply too wounded to keep fighting.

The battlefield kept you alive, father. When your king took you off, tried to reward you... I think you adapted in the worst way possible.

You flung yourself selflessly into battle when the odds were the worst, because you had known only battle for most of your life. You flung yourself into romance when mother found you, fought alongside you, and did not die in your arms- it must have appeared to be a boon from the Gods: finally, a companion who was not struck down five minutes after you had just met!

I am told that you did not wish to become a keeper of the land; you did so only under the express order of your king. Having no other choice, you flung yourself into the role of a lavish ruler.

Your king killed you, father. Took you out of the battlefield and placed you in the worst sort of position possible- you knew how to take orders with honor, to protect and defend and uphold all goodly grace- but you were utterly inept at resisting temptation when you were completely and suddenly submerged in it.

He poisoned you, father, but you gorged yourself on the poison like a hog at the trough. I cannot honestly say who I blame more for your fall.

Seven years after I left you, I am now stronger and more hardened than I ever could have gotten under your captains; their training being lashing me with whips until I got a strike right.

I do not wield the Holy Sword or its arts. I wield the Magic Blade, channeling elemental and destructive magic through my blade to sunder foes. I do not show my virtue by merely waving a blessed blade- I show it by example.

But my power can only destroy. Though I have this limitation, however, I will use it for good- I will sunder all the wicked who stand in my path. I will rid this land of the cancerous tyrants and fiends who have plagued it for far too long with too little retaliation.

Jacob and Hanna are snoring lightly. Two representations of innocent love.

I am lucky Jacob came along and won Hanna's heart. She was beginning to be attracted to me. I can't let your mistake repeat in me, father. I must cleanse whatever of your poison has rubbed off on me, first, before I can ever love in good conscience.

Thomas, the party thief, swindles a man out of what he proclaims to be his booze money. I refrain from intervening- these people should know better than to play cards with a thief.

He is a scoundrel, yet he has done more valorous deeds and heroic acts than I have ever even seen you attempt in those fifteen years. A noble rogue, they might say.

Oh, look at that. I'm talking to you, father, in my head. Talking to you as if I expect you to respond. How I slipped into this from modest self-examination and reminiscing is unnerving.

I must remember this. You- NO. He, my father, is dead to me.

I am somehow the leader of us four. They use my decisions and opinions as the guideline for where we go. I need to start having them make some of the decisions- I was cut out to be an adventurer, not the leader of them.

I talk to the captain. A few more hours, and we will be in the Land of Dragons. Bahamut waits there.

Perhaps he will test us himself. I cannot say that I find that prospect too appealing, having heard of his might. Perhaps he will ask us to purify a cavern full of demonic fiends that have never been kissed by the light of day. That sounds far preferable.

Whatever it is, I cannot honestly say I am ready. No one is ever ready, I think, for anything.

They simply adapt.


End file.
